


Welcome Home

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After he faked his death, Sherlock comes back to see John. He only hopes that he's allowed back at 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> Not beated or Brit-picked. Looks like medical!fetish, but isn't.

After Sherlock’s death, John had a few rituals that just wouldn’t go away. Mostly because he didn’t want them to.

Every day, when John came home from his job at Bart’s (been working in their A&E for about a two years; it was the most exciting thing he could find now that Sherlock was gone) he would enter the flat through the kitchen door and immediately look at the kitchen table. Even after three years, he expected to see a ghost-pale figure and that crazy mop of hair bent over the microscope. It didn’t matter how long it had been. John still expected it and every day, he was disappointed.

And whenever he made tea, he would automatically pull down two mugs. Most times, he didn’t even notice until he already started pouring the second. Then, he would stop, look at the second mug sitting on the strangely clean counter (yes, after three years, John was still surprised that his kitchen was sterile enough for food). He would stare and stare until he didn’t want the tea anymore, and both mugs would be left standing until Mrs. Hudson surreptitiously cleaned them away. In three years, John spent a lot of money on tea that he never drank.

Sometimes, he would wake in the middle of the night and swear that he could hear Sherlock scratching away at his violin. But every time John got out of bed to inspect, it was nothing. Just his imagination. Or his dreams. Not nightmares, not anymore. There was nothing bad enough in his life to give him nightmares. Nothing good enough to give him pleasant dreams. Without Sherlock, things were just… empty.

At first, Lestrade and Mycroft tried to help. Mycroft was paying Sherlock’s half of the rent and Lestrade ducked in at least once a month to take John out for a pint. Mrs. Hudson tried to keep him occupied too. They would watch crap telly or talk while she made tea that John didn’t drink, but nothing ever helped. And after a year, everyone stopped trying to make John feel normal again. Nothing would be normal without Sherlock.

On one of those days when John came back from Bart’s and walked through the kitchen door—again, Sherlock wasn’t at the table—he plopped his keys down on the counter and turned into the sitting room. And stopped dead.

Standing at the sitting room window, back to John, fingers stroking over his violin, was Sherlock. John squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them, the tall, thin (too thin) pale (too pale) ghost of his flatmate was still there. Still standing in their living room.

Hand still resting on his violin, Sherlock turned and fixed that cool, gray gaze on John. “Hello, John.” He whispered.

His voice was rough, from over-use instead of sickness. But that lovely baritone was still the same.

For one long moment, John just stood there, staring at Sherlock.

For once, the silence got the better of Sherlock first. His fingers stilled on his violin and he turned a quarter to the left, the better to look at John. “John?” He asked. “Please say something.” Sherlock never begged. More accurately: he never begged for John to talk more. In Sherlock’s opinion, silence was golden. Especially the silence of people who might otherwise be filling the air with useless words of stupidity.

Though his clothes were a little more worn than Sherlock used to wear, and he was too thin, he mostly looked alright. Then John saw the ghost of a bruise curling around the back of the taller man’s neck, and a scar cutting a white line through one of his dark eyebrows. What else changed about Sherlock? What other damage did he put that body through? Well, John was about to find out.

Slowly, John raised a finger. Wait. Sherlock knew this gesture. Only when he saw it, did John turn and leave the room. He walked out the door and up to his room. Yes, he left Sherlock’s room as it was and stayed upstairs. What of it?

Upstairs, he went to his closet and pulled out a clean white sheet, then turned to go back down. Just inside the kitchen door, he grabbed his medical bag from where he dropped it. When he walked back into the living room, the look of shock and not-knowing on Sherlock’s face was… unprecedented. John hadn’t seen the man so confused since they found that dead body in the car boot in Suffolk. But he wouldn’t be distracted.

Throwing out his free arm, John pushed everything off the kitchen table. Cups and mugs crashed to the floor, some breaking. Newspapers scattered everywhere. John didn’t care about the mess. He sort of cared that the noise made Sherlock jump, but he would worry about that later. With the table successfully cleared off, John threw the sheet over top of it and smoothed it out. He didn’t have any of the normal exam paper—which always kind of reminded him of butcher paper—but this would do for now.

Finally, he turned back to Sherlock and pointed at the table. “Sit,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. Sherlock would do this. There was no ‘my way or the highway,’ there was just John’s way. No highway option.

Moving with all his normal grace, but less of his usual speed, Sherlock walked into the kitchen and sat on the table. His legs dangled a few inches off the floor and he rose a head and a half higher than John. And for once, he had no idea what the other man could possibly be doing.

Still not speaking, John plopped his bag on the table and opened it, extracting his stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, reflex hammer, and otoscope. Not asking permission, John reached out and started to roll up Sherlock’s sleeve. The adhesive residue from all the nicotine patches didn’t decorate his skin like it normally did. (Normally? After three years of not seeing him, was anything still usual behavior?) Either he was smoking again, or even the clarity offered by the patches became a luxury while he was away. Right now, John didn’t care. Well, he did care if Sherlock was smoking again.

Sherlock jumped again at the rip of the Velcro as John fitted the blood pressure cuff around his bared forearm, just above the bend of his elbow. Sticking the end of the stethoscope under the cuff, John pumped at the cuff until he could hear everything. Sherlock sat and watched his doctor work.

When he removed the cuff, John shook his head. “Elevated,” was all he said before putting these items down and grabbing the otoscope. Next, he peered into Sherlock’s eyes, ears, nose and throat. The throat was what concerned him the most, given Sherlock’s unusually rough voice. Just as he thought, Sherlock’s throat was a little red, from yelling and screaming rather than sickness. Both good and bad.

John set down the otoscope and lifted his hands to Sherlock’s neck, palpating the lymph nodes there. Just in case. And Sherlock let him do this. He let John do whatever exam he wanted, and he would keep on letting him do whatever he wanted. Because the one thing Sherlock feared the most was John yelling at him. Screaming. Throwing him out of the flat for lying to him for three years. Oh yes, there would come a time for the yelling and screaming, no doubt about that, but the fact that John didn’t immediately throw him out told Sherlock so much. He was still allowed at 221B. This was still his home.

When John seemed satisfied with the state of Sherlock’s glands, he took a step back from the table and kneeled down. His hand reached up to grab the reflex hammer off the table top and held onto Sherlock’s ankle, forcing his leg to dangle straight down. When everything was in place, he gave Sherlock’s knee a tap. The leg kicked out like it should, but slower than it used to. Sherlock knew why, but did John?

This repeated with the other knee and then down to his feet. Holding onto Sherlock’s foot, John pulled off his socks and ran the handle of the hammer across the bottom of Sherlock’s right foot. It moved away accordingly. His left did not.

When he saw that, John immediately stood up and rolled up Sherlock’s other sleeve, testing the reflexes of his arms and elbows. Once again: his right arm moved correctly. His left was a bit too slow.

A frown creased John’s face and Sherlock had to say something. Had to explain. “Nerve damage,” he whispered.

“Right,” John nodded, stepping back from the table. “Get dressed.”

Without another word, he spun out of the kitchen to grab his jacket, leaving Sherlock to put his socks on and follow. He did. At the door, John handed him his coat. The familiar long black coat he left behind when he faked his death. John kept it on the rack by the door, always there, like Sherlock should have been….

Sherlock took it without a word and followed John out of the flat. Down the stairs, into the street. They hailed a cab and got in. “St. Bart’s,” John told the driver.

As the cab traveled through the streets of London, John stared straight ahead. Not looking at Sherlock. Sherlock, for his part, couldn’t help but look at John. Staring was more the correct word.

It appeared that nothing about that man had changed. But that was impossible, Sherlock knew that. And this cold silence… that was definitely new. This was more Sherlock’s line. While he was cold, aloof and distant, John was warm, approachable and friendly. This was a different side to John Watson, one Sherlock hadn’t seen before. Did he bring this out? Did his death and his absence create this state in the usually friendly man?

Before Sherlock could contemplate his guilt or responsibility too deeply, the cab stopped in front of Bart’s. John herded him out the door and inside. Following in the small man’s considerable wake, they went straight to the radiology department. Ah. John wanted to X-Ray his legs and arms, see the problem with his reflexes. Clever John.

He walked right up to the counter and smiled at the nurse there. All the stony concentration Sherlock saw so far vanished as John talked to the head radiology nurse. “I need a radiology suite,” he said.

She briefly eyed Sherlock before smiling at John. “Certainly Dr. Watson. Do you know for how long?”

John shrugged. “About two hours, if you can spare it.”

Her smile faded a bit. “Oh, that might be hard to manage. Let me check.” A few clicks on the computer and her frown deepened. “I’m sorry, Dr. Watson, I don’t have any extra time right now.”

John considered for a moment. “What about basement radiology? That old room is never in use.”

A few more clicks and her smile returned. “You’re right. Totally free. What should I put down in the patient information?”

With a smile Sherlock catalogued as John’s shameless flirting grin, John moved a bit closer to the nurse. “Actually, Lara, I can do the paper work on this one myself. Don’t want to give you more work than you already have.”

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, she actually nodded. “Of course, Dr. Watson. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” and with that, John turned. His fingers latched onto Sherlock’s arm and frog-marched him over to the lifts. Crowding him inside the car, John punched the basement button and they began the slow decent.

Neither man spoke, the ride was short, but oh so strange. John didn’t display any of his usual lift behavior. When he knew he had to leave (fake his death, lie to his only friend) Sherlock started cataloguing as much of John as he could. He saved it for those moments during the past three years, when it looked like Moriarty won and everything was beyond hopeless… Sherlock would think of John. The way he swayed his hips while making them tea. His loud voice as he sang badly in the shower. And the way he rocked back and forth on his heels when they were in a lift.

He didn’t do that now. Stood stock still, hands clasped in front of him. Waiting.

The lift doors opened and John’s hand was on Sherlock’s arm again, pushing him out and towards the long-forgotten radiology lab. Sherlock knew about this lab. Back when he was considering a few different hospitals for the location of his extended lab (the kitchen could only do so much) he toured the whole building, getting to know every nook and cranny. He remembered looking through this radiology lab and finding it outdated, but functional. It made sense that none of the doctors upstairs used it, but obviously, it fit John’s purposes.

Using his key, John opened the door and turned on the lights. “They don’t keep any gowns down here, so just strip down to your pants and socks.” He said as he walked into the controller’s room and started getting things ready.

Sherlock didn’t ask why, he just did. Removing his shoes, he placed them on the chair in the corner. Followed by his shirt, undershirt and trousers, until he was standing mostly naked in the cold, basement room.

John emerged from the control room with a blanket. He draped it over the X-Ray platform, completely ignoring Sherlock’s near-nudity. “This will make it a bit warmer, lay down. Arms straight down your sides.” Sherlock did.

John busied himself loading the films. Yes, this radiology lab was considered out of date because it was not fitted with digital technology and still used the expensive films. How would John pay for this?

As if to answer his question, John stepped into the control booth and pulled out his mobile. Hitting speed dial five, he waited patiently while the phone rang. “Mycroft,” he said; Sherlock’s heart dropped into his stomach. Mycroft knew he was alive and—as per Sherlock’s request—did not tell John. John was not a stupid man. As soon as Sherlock appeared in their flat, he knew what was going on, and he knew that Mycroft had to be involved.

“I’m taking some X-Ray films in the basement lab at Bart’s. I need about fifteen of them—maybe sixteen, just to be safe—and I need you to take care of it for me.” Mycroft said… something. Sherlock wasn’t close enough to hear. “I know you’ve never turned me down when I had a legitimate reason for needing money,” so Mycroft was supporting John? Sherlock didn’t think the other man would stand for something like that…. What else had changed? “And this is legitimate. I’m just not going to tell you.”

More words from Mycroft and a small smile from John. Sherlock would even go as far as to call that smile manipulative. “You could insist that I tell you why or you won’t take care of the X-Rays,” John said. “Or I could come by that lovely manor of yours and we can have a nice, long chat about how you helped your brother fake his death, and didn’t tell me for three years.”

Silence. Then a gush of sounds from the earpiece of the mobile. John smiled again. “That’s what I thought. Thank you, Mycroft.”

John hung up the phone and turned to look at Sherlock. He understood that he must look very silly, what with his jaw on the floor like that. But why shouldn’t he be surprised? John blackmailing—manipulating? both?—Mycroft. The man who mastered the sport and turned it into an art. John just held something over him to get what he wanted. Even Sherlock hadn’t been able to do that.

Phone back in his pocket, John grabbed the X-Ray technician’s lead vest off the rack and put it on. Then, he walked back over to Sherlock and handed him a lead sheet. “Hold that over your stomach. I’m starting with your legs.”

Starting? Sherlock wanted to say. He also wanted to ask about the sixteen X-Rays he just ordered Mycroft to pay for. But he didn’t. He stayed quiet as the machines buzzed and took the pictures.

Two hours later, Sherlock was dressed again and John was holding a large envelope full of sixteen films. Four from his legs (feet with tibia and fibula, then femurs, all right and left) one of his pelvis, torso, then six from his arms (hands, radius and ulna, then his upper arms, again: right and left) one for his collarbones and shoulders, one for his neck, and then finally, two for his skull. One straight on and one profile. A complete set of X-Rays. John was nothing if not thorough.

They hailed another cab and returned to Baker Street. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure he was ready to face her yet; John was hard enough.

When they passed her door on their way up the stairs, John saw Sherlock’s eyes flick over. “She’s not in.” He said. “She has her bridge group on Wednesdays.”

“Still?” It must’ve been the first thing he’d said in hours.

John smiled at that. “Just because you've changed doesn’t mean everyone else did.”

They walked back into the flat, straight into the kitchen. John placed the envelope full of X-Rays on the counter and disappeared into Sherlock’s room. “Strip off!” John called over his shoulder as he opened the door.

Sherlock didn’t know why the man was going into his room. Was it still his room? Maybe John moved down there and it was his room now. No. Then why did he go upstairs to get the sheet? So he still had his room upstairs. Was Sherlock’s room storage?

He stood in the kitchen as all these thoughts flitted through his head, and by the time Sherlock remembered that John wanted him to do something, John was back. Carrying Sherlock’s light table.

When he saw that Sherlock was still fully clothed, his brow wrinkled. “Strip off.” He said again.

Sherlock nodded and started to unbutton his shirt again. For some reason, this wasn’t like back in the radiology lab. This was their home, their kitchen. It seemed more… intimate.

John at least had the decency to turn his back while he set up Sherlock’s light table and arranged the X-Ray films next to it. Of course, Sherlock thought. Stupid. How else would he look at the films?

Once Sherlock was naked (again) John turned around. “Up on the table again,” he commanded before looking back at the light table. The X-Ray of Sherlock’s left foot, tibia and fibula was on its surface. And there, John could see it all. The bone shear and shattered tibia (full of pins and screws) that led to Sherlock’s nerve damage and subsequent lack of proper reflexes.

John made a disapproving little noise and turned around again. Sherlock was still standing, staring. “Up on the table,” John said again. This time, Sherlock obeyed. More out of his body reacting to the command in John’s voice and less from a conscious decision.

He kneeled again, taking Sherlock’s left foot in hand. This time, instead of testing his reflexes, John looked at the flesh. A long scar he didn’t have time to look at before made its way down the left side of Sherlock’s calf. A matching scar went down the right side.

“It was—” Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

“The break was too complex. They had to slice you open, go in surgically to rearrange the bones. Screw some pieces together.” He dropped Sherlock’s foot and stood up. Back to the light table, another X-Ray.

The next hour and a half went along like this. John looked at Sherlock’s X-Rays, then conferred with what his body had to say. By the end, he sat back and looked up at the other man’s face.

“You broke your left tibia a year and a half ago. Chipped your left patella, can’t tell when though—I didn’t get good films of your knees. You’ve broken and bruised too many ribs for me to count, all over the space of the last three years. Dislocated both shoulders, and slipped the right one. Twice.” He said. “I imagine that broken clavicle came along with the second slip, which happened about six months ago. A break like that means it was bad. Probably a level III, or maybe even a level IV slip. The last time wasn’t properly set and it’s probably causing pain in your shoulder.

“Thankfully, your head and neck are fine. Not a scratch on them. No sign of new trauma or anything substantially or lasting.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “Your brain is perfect. Just as it ever was. The scar cutting through your eyebrow was probably just a flesh wound.” And Sherlock’s most prized possession—and the thing John loved most about him—was perfectly safe.

For the first time in hours, John relaxed. He let his hands rest on Sherlock’s shoulders, his thumb skating over the poorly-set collar bone. “The only thing I can really fix is the collar bone.” He said.

Sherlock looked amazed. For the barest hint of a second, it was there. The awe that John could read his injuries like a book just from the films of out-dated technology. But then Sherlock chased the look off his face; of course John knew. Of course. He wasn’t just a doctor, he was a good doctor. Very good.

“The pain isn’t that bad,” Sherlock said. “Manageable.”

John shrugged, fingers still stroking Sherlock’s shoulder. “Still, re-breaking is an option. Usually it’s done with fresh healed breaks, but, I don’t mind if you don’t.”

That made Sherlock stop. “You would…” how to say this? “Want to hurt me?” Was John really that angry at him? Because he didn’t look it.

The thumb stroking his clavicle stopped and John’s smile faded. “I’m a doctor, Sherlock. Sometimes we hurt to help. Doesn’t mean we enjoy it.” Hands falling away as John stepped back. “I assume you did your little disappearing act to keep me safe? That hurt, but you did it for me. Am I right?” As usual, John was completely right. One hundred percent.

But he was stepping back again. “I have a few more exams to do.”

John turned and went back to his bag, pulling out the stethoscope again, he stepped close and pressed the cold end to Sherlock’s chest. “Breathe,” John commanded, completely ignoring Sherlock’s small squeak at the cold touch. “Breathe,” Sherlock did.

After a few deep breaths, John pulled back. “You haven’t been smoking. That’s good.” He walked around to Sherlock’s back and started to listen again. “Deep breaths, now.” Sherlock did.

Sherlock did everything John asked him to. When he put the stethoscope away and grabbed Sherlock’s hands. “Push up against me. As hard as you can.” Sherlock did.

“Touch your chin to your sternum.” Sherlock did.

“Lay back.” Sherlock did and John leaned over him, gently palpating the quadrants of his abdomen. He tried not to laugh and in his trying, John cracked a small smile.

“Hop off the table and bend over. Touch your fingers to your toes.” Sherlock did. When he felt the flat of John’s palm against his back—feeling his spine, looking for any curving—Sherlock had to keep himself from leaning into it.

Then, John’s hand left. So did John’s warm heat behind him. “Turn around and bend over the table.” He said as he returned to his medical bag, producing rubber gloves and a small tube of medical grade lubricant.

“Oh,” Sherlock said.

John sighed and let his eyes fall shut. “You’ve been gone for three years. God knows what you’ve been doing to that body of yours, and you’re in the age range where you should have it done yearly. Turn around and bend over the table.”

Another second of hesitance, and then Sherlock did.

“Thank you,” John whispered. Then, Sherlock heard the click of a cap and a small squirt as John applied the lube to his gloved fingers.

John turned around to see the other man leaning over the table as asked. Stepping close again, back into Sherlock’s personal space that he usually held like armor, but now it seemed as fragile as tissue, John placed one hand just below the small of Sherlock’s back. He held his cheeks apart and moved the other hand forward to circle the tiny pucker.

Sherlock moaned audibly when John’s lubed finger first touched him. “Bare down,” John whispered, his mouth hovering right next to his ear.

Sherlock did, and John’s finger slid right up into him. Sherlock moaned again. He couldn’t help it. Yes, he knew this was just a medical procedure (one that usually made men uncomfortable) but he couldn’t keep it in. Three years… he hadn’t been touched there—anywhere—in three years. And yes, Sherlock was not overly fond of physical contact, but the sweet hugs from Mrs. Hudson, the gentle nudges from John, hell, even Irene’s dominating gaze and hard nails raking against him were all preferable to the battery he’d endured in his efforts to find Moriarty. After so long without a single friend in the world, Sherlock would moan when John touched him. Anywhere and everywhere, John could always touch him.

Meanwhile, that gloved finger was doing its work. With the unerring hand of a doctor who knew what the hell he was doing, John found Sherlock’s prostate and nudged the little gland for a moment, feeling for any abnormalities, or any damage from the way Sherlock treated his body like a loaner car rather than a beautiful Jaguar that needs to be looked after and kept pristine. Nothing. Everything was perfect.

Despite the massive structural damage Sherlock caused from throwing himself around God knows what parts of the world, to John’s exam, all the inner workings were fine.

“Alright,” John whispered, extracting his finger. The gloves snapped as he stripped them off and chucked them in the bin. “You can get dressed now.” John’s voice was an octave higher than normal. Hum.

Sherlock turned and looked. Voice stressed, skin flushed, pupils dilated. Ah, Sherlock knew what this was. After a day of not being able to read John (too many differences, too many changes) this was painfully obvious. The stirring low in Sherlock’s belly told him that he reciprocated. Yes, of course he did.

Standing up to his full height, Sherlock took a step forward into John’s personal space. Bringing his hand up, he stroked long fingers over John’s cheek in a way that could not be construed as friendship. “What if I don’t want to get dressed?” He asked.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice cautioned, but he could see the hunger staring out at him. The exam, the X-Rays, Sherlock understood now: they were all John’s way of making sure Sherlock was really here. Really back with him; this wasn’t just some dream.

“I’m here, John,” he whispered. Stepping closer. “And I’m not leaving again.”

That. It was a simple as that. “Christ, Sherlock,” John sighed and leaned forward. Their lips met and they both moaned. Yes. How could it take this long? It was so obvious….

Before Sherlock could let himself get lost in the kiss (like he wanted) John’s hands were around his arms. Pulling him back. Yes, the kitchen table. It was right there, so perfectly placed. Sherlock went with him, steering them towards the table. Where he thought John was going.

When John backed into it the table, his hands tightened on Sherlock’s arms. “No,” he grunted against the man’s lips.

“No?” Sherlock was confused.

“No,” John said again. His hands slid down Sherlock’s arms to his waist. Just as he thought they were getting somewhere, John started pushing him away. “Our first time is not going to be in the kitchen, across the table.” Oh.

“First time?” Sherlock’s brain was officially off-line. All he knew was that John stopped kissing him. This was not good.

“Yes,” John nodded as he pulled them through to the bedroom. Hands were touching Sherlock again, touching him all over. It was wonderful. “Whatever the fuck you’ve been doing, I don’t care. I just…” up on his toes, John kissed him again. Pushing Sherlock against the wall, kissing him for all he was worth.

Sherlock was so glad they stopped again. Now he could properly kiss John. Kiss, and lick down his throat in a way that made him moan. And rub. Yes, rub. Sherlock thrust his naked cock against John’s still (unfortunately) clothed body.

That seemed to snap John out of it. “No!” He pulled his lips away from Sherlock’s again and turned them around. “Bedroom. Bedroom….”

Sherlock couldn’t help the moan of loss when John reached out one hand to open the bedroom door. Then, he no longer cared as the smaller man shoved him through the door and whirled him around, down onto the bed. Oh yes, Sherlock was never happier that this was the layout of his room. His room. Their room? They would work it out later. For now, John had to keep kissing him. There was no reason not to.

The next time John pulled away, it was Sherlock’s turn to say no. “No!” He grabbed at John’s jumper, keeping him firmly in place. “There’s no excuse now,” he said, dragging their lips back together. “Just kiss me.”

“I’d rather kiss you naked,” John said.

Sherlock stopped moving. “Oh,” he blinked up at John for a moment before pulling back. “Continue.”

Shooting him a smile—the first real smile today—John stood up from the bed and stripped off his clothes with baffling efficacy. He wasn’t even gone three seconds before he blanketed himself down over Sherlock again. Right where he belonged.

“You were away too long,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s lips.

He smiled into the kiss. “I could say the same about you.” It was a joke. Always a joke. After John had his examination and satisfied his worry that Sherlock hurt himself beyond repair (thankfully, he hadn’t) the past three years no longer mattered. They never would.

The next few minutes passed in a blissful blur. Data overloaded Sherlock’s senses—in the best way. He never had the chance to catalogue the way John’s skin felt while aroused. Before and after, yes, but never during. The sweat that he produced as they kissed and kissed and kissed, was the most wonderful thing Sherlock ever smelled. And the way John’s skin felt under his fingers… soft, warm and wonderful. All this amazing data was made even better by John himself. John here, kissing Sherlock the way it always should have been. After so many years of waiting, they finally had what they should’ve had all along.

But no. That wasn’t right. No matter how amazing it would have been, they couldn’t do this before. Because if Sherlock had John in his bed and then had to convince this wonderful, loving man that he was dead… no. Sherlock couldn’t even think about that. This was exactly how it should’ve happened. After. Not before.

Sherlock let himself get so lost in the rush of data—John’s lips, his hair, his skin, his smell—he didn’t even notice what the man himself was up to. Not until he already did it. Sherlock gasped in shock as John’s tight heat sank around him. That soft, creamy bottom sinking down, flush with Sherlock’s pelvis.

“What?” He gasped. “John—what...”

“Shut up,” John commanded. “I have a few conditions.”

A shove of hips and Sherlock’s chest jerked like John had him on a string. “Conditions?” He gasped.

“Yes,” John ground his ass down onto Sherlock’s cock, making him gasp again. “Conditions. Condition one: you will sleep at least five hours a day. More would be better, but five is as low as I’ll go. They don’t even have to be in a row. Power naps are very useful.

“Condition two: you will eat at least two meals a day.” John rose up off Sherlock’s cock until just the tip was inside that tight, tight hole. Then, he smashed back down. The detective moaned, eyes crossing, toes curling down into the blankets. His hips bucked up of their own accord, hands reaching out to clench onto John’s hips. His fingers were probably leaving bruises. Neither man really cared.

“Breakfast must be one of the meals,” John continued on with the conditions. “But lunch or dinner is your option. Tea does not count as a meal. Condition three, the kitchen is to remain sterile. You can still do experiments there, but you will clean everything before and after. Only one shelf—the bottom—in the fridge will be allotted for body parts, mold cultures, bacteria, or anything else that shouldn’t mix with food.

“Condition four,” here, John leaned down, covering Sherlock’s chest with his. His hand reached up to cup his face, bringing them close. “If you ever pull this again, you will put my name on the list of people Mycroft has to notify.

“These are my conditions,” John grunted out, and shoved back. “I’m not going to ask if you accept them, because you do.”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped as his hips did that thrusting thing again. Three years without John, when he could’ve been having this. With John. Sherlock was an idiot. “Yes, John. God, yes.”

“Good,” John leaned down and kissed Sherlock. And that was that.

The next few minutes were filled with the sounds of love making. Soft grunts, moans and the wonderful slide of skin against skin. It was heaven. If Sherlock was a believing man, he’d say God loved him. Then again, maybe the idea of God wanting him to shag his male flatmate was probably not what He was all about. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing outside of this room and this bed. Where John’s fingers and lips touched him everywhere, his warm, smooth body pulling Sherlock in, and in, and in until Sherlock didn’t know where he ended and John began.

This right here, was perfect. And Sherlock would never want for anything more.

All too soon, the pressure building inside his body popped. With a long, loud moan, Sherlock came. Hips bucking up against John’s ass, fingers gripping hard enough to definitely leave bruises. From the noises he could hear, John didn’t seem to mind. Not at all.

Still perched on top of Sherlock’s lap, John reached down and started pumping at his own cock. Two rough strokes later, he came too. Spurting across Sherlock’s beautiful, scarred chest. John didn’t care about those scars. He cared about the man moaning and writhing under him.

When everything came crashing to a halt, John collapsed down onto Sherlock, both men breathing hard. Kissing Sherlock’s shoulder, John rolled off him.

But that wouldn’t do. Before he could get too far away, Sherlock reached out and pulled John back, burying his head into John’s neck. “I love you.” He whispered. “I should’ve said it years ago, but I’m saying it now.” Because he did. Boy, did he ever.

John smiled against Sherlock’s hair, kissing him again. “I love you too, you great idiot.”

“Hey,” Sherlock reached up and grabbed John’s chin. Tipping his eyes up until they met his. “I’m not leaving again. Never again, John.”

If possible, John smiled wider. “I know. Welcome home, Sherlock.”

The End


End file.
